Copyright, Nina Bagley

2005-2014
All rights reserved.
I spend a lot of time taking photos and editing them; words take that long as well. PLEASE DO WRITE AND ASK PERMISSION before using any of my words or photographs. Thanks for understanding.

September 2008

coming to back down to alabama is, to me, coming home to comfort and nourishment for the heart and soul. lord. i'm sitting out here on the screened porch, under an old wooden ceiling fan, trying to wax eloquent and my father is continuing to interrupt my thoughts with comments about the word "home", as he gazes over here to my laptop screen, and about the spider lilies sitting here on the iron table. i can't concentrate, and he knows this, laughing every now and then at himself, bless his heart. but comment he continues to do, and i love that i am still able to sit out here in his presence and be the daughter that he needs me to be: attentive, and present. period. he drinks in my company like a thirsty pup, and i know how treasured these moments will be to me once they are gone forever. just now he said to me that every time he says something, as i'm trying to write, that i develop a fidgety "itch" on the back of my neck. are you smiling with me? i'm smiling as i write this, as i listen to him talk about the clarity of the little house on the hill in the photograph below.

do you love, as much as i do, the lovely liz lamoreaux meditation flags that i ordered for my mother? do you love how the soft afternoon light filters through those vintage cotton and linen handkerchiefs, how the word "home" shows up like a beacon? my mother has been working for days on end, straightening up her studio that, throughout the years while she still worked full time, gained more and more clutter until this week she could no longer stand it. so in the mornings, before alabama hot september days make an upstairs room unbearable, she is sorting and pitching, hanging and straightening, and i envy her this new crisp space where everything is in its rightful place. "home is where the heart is", daddy says now to me, three or four times. indeed.

this morning i stepped outside, early, to take a few photographs of the flowers that grace a small deck just outside this porch - huge clay pots of crayon colored zinnias, purple astors, yellow mums. there was a little lizard friend within the feathery worn leaves, staring back at me; and when i showed the image to my mother, she asked me to come see if her tree frog friends were hiding down in their favorite peace lily. i love these photographs, so much - the green of summer, radiant still, and little lives that blend in with the colors that surround them.

what do they see when they look back at me?

what do they feel with their tiny little toes?

what colors speak to them, what do they feel when they see the different variations of green?

i continue to sit here on the porch, quiet under the fan, my father watching as i load the photos onto the computer and up on the screen. "you can go home again", he says, intentionally misquoting thomas wolfe. i know this to be true, and for that i am blessed. it is as much a pleasure for me to be here with my aging parents as it was for me when i was growing up - if not more so. and i try to be there for them when they tell me their stories (in daddy's case, over and over again) and react as freshly as i did the first time i heard them years ago. i sit in close proximity of my father, just to be a presence for him, of someone who loves him dearly, who feels his love radiating back to me. and i show you, at his request, the photograph he wanted me to take to share with my readers, of the magnolia tree off to the side of the yard where he goes out and waters every evening for an hour or so. see? now, go and call your parents, or your elderly aunt, or even your sister, brother, child. tell them how much you love them and that you wish you were sitting under a creaking porch fan, listening to them tell you their favorite memories and stories. xo

see what was outside my windows last evening? i'm reminded of a tiffany window, all opalescent, soft and heavenly: ethereal. there don't come many evenings such as this - i remember the most spectacular sunset i ever saw from this spot was on new year's eve, 2005 - a fiery explosion of red and orange and purply blue that burst across the western sky then bled into deeper and deeper shades that seemed to grow closer and closer, the longer i looked. but this - these - were as recent as last evening, and when i went out onto the deck in bare feet to feel more like i was an actual part of the scenery, the smell in the air was crisp and dry-leafy and definitely fall. and it took my breath away. and then i gasped, a quick intake of surprise to find the prompt change of things settling so solidly around me.

aspen is upset with me; for the past two days i've walked back and forth between the studio, living room and bedroom, carrying laundry, re-opening (and emptying) suitcases, filling them slowly with folded cottons and linens, with candles to make the hotel room feel more like home, a book... chocolate: all the essentials to help me remember the comforts of this place where i am ever no one but myself. we hit the long road to alabama again tomorrow, aspen and i, and on tuesday i board a plane in montgomery that will carry me out to portland. nighttime will come while i am in the air, and i'm hoping it will be clear below me so i can watch that thin orange or red line which illuminates the horizon far below when the sun goes down. magic happens, that way, even in odd places where you'd least expect it, flying high above the earth, sitting quietly, as the world changes from light to sunset to dark. i'll see you soon. xo

you've heard me recently mention my beloved sister ellen, and here she is, all grown up (i earlier shared a photo of the two of us when we were young) - my only remaining sibling now, and i'm beginning to realize more and more and more with each passing day how fortunate we both are to have each other still. and to have had each other, always. i know misty and i have talked extensively about the drawbacks of being an only child, and i lament the many years that ellen and i allowed to pass without continual contact. that's all changing now, as i make more frequent trips to alabama to visit with our aging parents, to fly out from there whenever i leave on a trip so my also aging pup can stay with his grandparents. it's your turn, sister, to come up here!

you may also remember my sharing with you an image or two of some jewelry i'd made using the wonderful new lampwork egg beads that i urged her to create. after a couple of weeks of sitting in her hot garage in alabama with a big old flame firing away, she's finally ready to place some of her creations in her "starcatcher" etsy shop. the photos here are random and not up to my usual standards (you may click on them for a closer look): the lighting was dim, and i was trying to keep up with her as she deftly twirled the metal rod with molten glass under the flame, as she sprinkled frit onto the eggs to give them that natural speckled look. this is not a quick process, let me tell you: first the glass is heated, melted and formed on prepared rods (i know there is a proper name for those things, but glass is not my forte - wait, mandrel, that's it), then comes the frit, which is comprised of tiny flecks of ground glass. after heating again, the eggs are placed in the kiln to anneal them so they won't crack or shatter. a natural matte finish, closer to the real thing, is accomplished by a process of etching. finally, they are cleaned and dried (a second time).

needless to say, i'm thrilled to have such gorgeous custom eggs created for my jewelry designs; just cruising through etsy or ebay shows me that there is nothing like her eggs out there. a tiny childish part of me would love to have these all to myself; but i truly am an adult and a good sister(most of the time), and want very much to introduce ellen's work to the rest of the world. more than that, i want her to be able to sell the work that she truly loves to do. so go have a look, and treat yourself to something exquisitely made, by tender hands, by someone beautiful and wonderful, by my very own big sister named ellen. xo

friday update: those eggs are flying out of ellen's shop as if they'd already hatched and have wings! she is loading a few more, as fast as she can - so if you want them, don't snooze. thanks, all of you, for offering your support, your enthusiasm, your compliments, and your business to her!!!! xoxo

this time of year, the light that filters through screens and windows and spills across worn wooden floors seems to change as fast as each new day that arrives. it seems more golden, somehow, more direct as it shoots its shafts of dancing mote beams through front windows that had for the length of summer provided nothing but welcome shade. i've moved my computer over to the edge of the windowed walls here in the front of my living room, where i can gaze out and see distant rippled mountains, where i can watch the maple tree just beyond the deck begin, slowly begin, to change its summer mantle. i start to see things in the earthier of colors: ochre, rust, moss green - and colors start to have a certain smell about them, in my quiet moments: the dry brown toasty smell of fallen leaves, the misty grey of rising smoke, the white of foggy dawn. out of my closet comes the clothing that reflects these things, in linen and cotton, silk and wool. i laugh as i write this, because most of that clothing is now out of that closet and spilling over into baskets and three suitcases as i wash and sort and pack for my trip to cooler portland.

most late mornings and on through the afternoon into early evening, you can find me sitting quietly before my studio table (with ever present aspen sprawled on the floor less than twelve inches behind me), glad for the little twinkling lights and tree branches that i placed in there last november, glad (mostly) for the snug size of the room, glad for the ability to work full time out of my home. i love seeing how the changing seasons are reflected in my work, how nature's pull on me comes through in everything i do. two days ago i received a lovely package from my beloved friend holly, the one who passionately lives winters in key west (and to whom i'll be eternally grateful for my adventure with billy collins and the key west literary seminar) and summers on the lake shores of michigan. holly used to own a delicious little boutique in key west - that's how we met, in fact, through my attending the new york gift show twice a year and through her ordering of my production jewelry line, back in the day - and shares with me a penchant for pawing through dusty antique shop drawers for hidden treasure. from time to time i get incredible packages from her, filled with antique dolls, velvet photo albums, mother of pearl buckles, antique beaded ribbon. sequins from france. thin balsam tags. ancient and tiny coin purses of leather, of petite point embroidery. old wooden type stamps depicting tiny winged creatures.

it's always christmas when holly's mail arrives. this time, her package held the latest jim harrison novel, and - yes - billy collins' new book of poetry. tucked deeper down into the padded envelope was a small wrapped envelope of the most delicious mother of pearl discs - and i immediately thought of the full harvest moon. see? it's there, hiding amongst the willow branches, hovering behind a silver heart. i love how the mother of pearl glistens when the shadowbox is turned this way and that, how the discs fit into the silver frames just so. when working with these slender quarter sized slivers of moonlight, i wondered how many hands had held them as they were harvested from the sea, cut into circles, passed from factory to merchant, from merchant to drawer, from drawer to antique dealer, from dealer to holly and finally to me. and i wonder, too, around whose neck this ornament will hang, with its quiet history, with its hushed ode to the nighttime, to the seasons, to the round and splendid moon. xo

i know i've been quiet this week - not really by choice, not really by plan, just - quiet. things continue to be hectic and busy as i prepare to leave yet again, this time for portland, oregon where i'll be teaching and vending at art and soul. then, then - after i get back home (via alabama, the routine these days - i drive down to my parents', stay over a couple of nights, leave aspen with them, and fly out from there, then fly back in to bama, stay another couple of nights, and listen to my father tearfully ask when i'll be back before i've even left), i'll finally be able to put down my flaps and settle into the mountains' changing of the seasons. fall is beginning to drape itself all around me, in quiet gentle late september fashion, and i continue to be startled by the sudden splashes of yellow in the trees and on the ground around my feet.

"let the heart speak" - words from a beautiful book that misty made for my birthday two years ago this fall. my heart always speaks, sometimes when i don't want it to shout quite so clearly, so audibly. the heart that i wear permanently stitched to my sleeve speaks to everyone - i can't help myself. the boys have grown accustomed to the frankness of my emotions, and i'm pleased to see a few of my more tolerable traits surfacing in them as well. how lovely to sit across the table, or on the same side, and gaze into what could be perceived as a shimmery mirror of my own reflection. i love these folks - for lack of a better term, i can't call them children anymore - robin with his burly face and gentle eyes, his sweetheart mary with her cheshire grin and open heart, roy with that goofy expression of determined tolerance that inevitably surfaces for the camera (why won't he smile?!). it is an odd emotion to feel that i am among equal adults whenever we sit down to share a meal or chat, wherever we are - odd and beautiful. i've done my job well, i think, when it comes to these boys. if i fail at everything else in this life, i can rest assured that i raised two children to become glorious adults, with tender hearts and beautifully original minds.

when roy heard that i'd not be home when he's here for his fall break two weeks from now, he drove seven hours to spend part of this past weekend with me. late in the afternoon on saturday, we piled into his car with aspen and drove up onto the blue ridge parkway for a lovely two hours of being in the places we used to frequent when he and robin were little boys and living under my wing. (and yes, he is ambulatory once again, thankfully). one stopping point was up on waterrock knob, where years ago i carted the two of them and a couple of friends in the middle of one freezing november night to watch what turned out to be a lifelong memory of exploding meteors and stars that showered down into a faint pink sunrise above the eastern mountainous horizon. this spot is only a twenty minute drive from my house, and it is real. it truly is.

when i walked back into a house last evening that seemed even more empty than before, i thought about all the stories and the memories and the feelings that motherhood has provided for me, and stared into the sunset sky for longer than i care to admit. life has been full, thus far, and more good than bad. i'm thankful for that, and hope that the next stage will bring as much joy and variety as i've shared with two shining points of light for twenty three years. this morning i walked around taking photographs of chairs - wicker chairs in light, nylon chairs in the grass, porch wicker chairs, chairs in jewelry - and realized that my heart is dwelling on home, on being here, on treasuring the nest that's moved with me wherever i've ended up all these many years. the wickers' paint is flaking off from all those moves, from wear and tear, from evenings sat rocking while one of the boys shared renegade stories with me; i don't mind the flaking, really, because the blemishes reflect the wrinkles and the sunspots and the puffy eyes of this nearly 52 year old face of mine - a face full of character, a face that has reflected the light of so very many lovely radiant souls. old wicker, old lace, old worn pieces of driftwood, old crystal that reflects this morning light - i can see that i've surrounded myself with all the stories that this world of mine has worn into its varied surfaces. i look into the faces of my boys in photographs and can see behind their shining eyes, their smooth smooth skin, a little bit of worn down, wrinkled, wizened me. and that, my friends, is the purest bittersweet essence of motherhood, in all its timely glory.

"There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it." --Edith Wharton

as a child, i never liked camp - never liked being away from home, didn't care for large gatherings (and truth be told, i don't as an adult) with lots of people, noise, change of routine. i cared not for communal bathrooms, nametags, scheduled dinners, scheduled evening activities. and still, i don't. but now? there are times, i realize now, that it is very healthy for me to get away, up and out of myself, out of my familiar surroundings, away from the usual bends in the road and out into a world that is new and fresh and unpredictable. it is good to walk new ground, to set foot on creaky old porches i've never visited until the minute i walk across the boards; it is a good and pleasant thing to open windows of wavy glass to a sparkling body of water below, to plop down in cane chairs that face nothing but woods and rocks and water, good to sit and stare out at that water as the sun or clouds or mist or rain or dusk take the air that floats above and make it do all sorts of magical things with the light, with the smells, with the general feeling of a place that is new to me. always the shy girl, the wallflower, the one who is in the corner watching the pageantry pass by, i continue to this day to be the one whose heart is racing as she gets closer to her destination, who dreads walking into a crowded room, who knows not how to break the ice. why worry about these things when surrounded by nature, by anything but smiles and water and trees and rocks and light?

i'm not sure why i continue to worry as i do: beside me, always, is my very best friend, kindred spirit, soulmate extraordinaire. we share the same pre-trip butterflies, the same worries, all the parallel quandaries that come with traveling great distances and teaching; and without fail, we always - always - manage to have the best of times.

and soon enough we were laughing with new friends, sailing into the night, laughing as the dark folded itself around us like the softest blanket.

i began to fall in love with the adventure of being amongst new people all over again, and welcomed the chance to mingle old with new: old familiar faces and smiles, new smiles and fresh ideas, all together in a place far from home, where loons called into the dusk and made my heart well up so large that i thought it would spill over with emotion. i love it when an experience grabs me so strongly that i know in the moment that i'll never forget the faces, the stories, the look of the air all around me.

it was a beautiful thing to stand before a group of twenty warm hearted women and teach them things they'd never learned, to share with them the techniques i know, to learn from them as well. with the comfort of early morning fires in the huge stone hearth and windows that stretched across and around our beautiful old workshop at the water's edge, we were a body of creativity and imagination for three solid days, and i finally understood why so many girls from my childhood welcomed the opportunity to branch out from their sheltered worlds and go to summer camp over and over again.

i have a lot for which to thank elizabeth, the organizer of SAW at squam: my beautiful classroom with its fireplace and creaky floorboards and view, my lovely room at eldorado with misty and the other teachers, the meals, the surroundings, but mostly for allowing me an opportunity to teach somewhere new, somewhere fresh, in one of the most beautiful places i've ever been. imagine that - me. liking camp. as a teacher. maybe i'm growing up - or maybe, just maybe, i am remembering what it was like to be a child full of grace and wonder all over again. xo

fall is coming, quickly, quickly. i feel it in the late afternoon coolness and the way the breeze bends the poplar leaves on surrounding trees just so. i feel it in the night when i get up to fetch a second blanket, and hear the screech owl calling through the 5am chill. i see it in the random leaves that are beginning to clutter the ground out back - dogwood, poplar, walnut, oak. hickory. the air smells of old growth, of waiting. i'm getting ready to leave again, on monday, and will be gone long enough so that upon my return after mid month, i'll notice the distinct change that will have settled down around this place while i am gone. nature waits not for me. not for me. i'm headed to a lovely place - squam lake in new hampshire, where they filmed on golden pond so many years ago; i will be surrounded by water and woods, by beautiful vistas and old cabins with rustic appeal, so the absence won't be felt quite as sharply as my usual tendency. the forests there will be just as lovely, i'm sure, as the mountains that surround me here at home in western north carolina, and i'll be teaching an extended three day workshop that heralds the seasons, embraces nature, and my class is full of kindred spirits coming from near, from far just as i am. i heard from one of my students this morning, who sent a lovely letter full of anticipation, full of support and gratitude for the chance to gather with like minded souls in an atmosphere of beauty and creativity. wendy once lived in new york city, and was there - right there, right there, across from the twin towers on that awful, horrid day in september of 2001 when the world as we knew it changed forever. that she will be spending the anniversary of that day with me, with all of us at Saw, touches my heart very very deeply. here are some of her words (i hope you don't mind, wendy):

"hi nina.i can't believe it's finally here.this trip has not been without its obstacles as you know.we've found nursing care for my ill cat and she will be staying with him in our home the entire time we're away.hard to believe there are angels walking this earth, but now i believe i have proof.

this gathering is so important to me onmany levels.it's the first time i've been able to hold my soul sacred since before i became pregnant with my son who

is now three.and i firmly believe that children live what the learn so it's

vital that he sees his mom in her element, with her tribe, following her bliss, living passionately with connection and belonging...to see that in spite of all the obstacles we faced, we managed to see it through and make it happen.the piece that i'll be working on is an extension of those feeling...gifts that i want to give my son within its pages....the necklace a talisman of sorts with found objects collected by those wee hands of his as well as other trinkets symbolic to me.

in addition your class begins on the anniversary of one of the most tragic days in my life and the thought of creating in a beautiful place with beautiful kindred spirits around me and my family and friends close by is quite healing."

needless to say, it will be a moving and transformative time for the entire class, to be in wendy's company for three days. as for myself, i plan to wander the woods and shoreline of the waters, to reflect on my life as i gaze out at the sky that is, itself, reflected in the rippling surface of the lake. i want this to be a peaceful trip, one that teaches me things as a teacher, one that opens my eyes and my heart to the creativity and wants and voices of the students that are there with me. to know that they've placed their trust in my ability is something that keeps me teaching in the months and years ahead. other than the need to create a few more pieces of jewelry, i feel that i'm ready for this trip: although i've not yet packed my clothes, i've assembled and packaged and mailed the heavy class kits, and need only now to sort through my tool bag and replace what has been used or spent.

and while i am always, without fail, reluctant to leave the comfort and security of familiar, quiet surroundings here on firefly road, i think that heading to a place of such spectacular natural beauty will provide for me a welcome sanctuary while i'm so far away from home. to breathe the fresh air, to walk trails cluttered with newly fallen leaves, to dip my hands in the waters of new hampshire will be just the thing, i think, to make me feel at ease and at home away from home. i'll see you upon my return, and will be full of new adventures and vistas to share with you all. xo

i thought i'd come up for air and let you see what i've been creating in the studio for the past couple of weeks. it's interesting for me to see my jewelry as a collection, all jumbled up within a bowl, colors and textures and paper and bisque and natural findings thrown together to become one single thing: my line of jewelry. rarely do i have the opportunity to photograph it like this, many pieces mingled as one: i usually make one piece, post it online, and then sell it. one at a time, bit by bit, each piece flies away from this home to the next one that is waiting in the wings. i have two separate teaching engagements and vendor sales coming up in the next couple of weeks, so i'm trying my best to stockpile what seems like a fair representation of the things that i do: the heavy knots in silver wire, teamed up with rhinestone rondelles; the resin charms set in cast sterling shapes, portraying winsome images and words; cocoon beads of ribbon and tiny seed beads and wire; wings of insects forever encased in slender sheets of mica; antique french silk ribbon, hand dyed to the colors that speak softly to me; engraved stories or memories hand inscribed across the backs of pieces so that when worn, the secret words become warm from one's skin... as i was working with this image in photoshop, i was startled to see a part of me, a tiny reflection, mirrored across the surface of one particular piece. see if you can find me - i bet you can. (for detail you may click on the photo for a magnified view). want an even closer look at some of these ornamentations? i'm happy to share them with you:

when i look all of this myself, i'm a little amazed to see what lies before me. i made these trinkets, bit by bit by winding bit, and remember certain thoughts and feelings i was mulling over in the hours i made each neckace you see here. you all remember the cicada wing, found in the driveway of my parents' alabama home. now it has a new place to reside, encased in mica and made to wear around some fanciers' neck. and what is a wing, without a few words engraved into the silver at its back? i try not make the jewelry all look the same; it's difficult at times when on a roll, and when a certain style has been ingrained in me for what feels like forever.

there are birds and nests and eggs and branches everywhere; there are friends sitting together on the front stoop of a house; there are doors, windows, trees, gates, words that talk of sentiments and emotions. call it trivial, if you will; this is my world, and from my fingers into my work flow the stories of my quiet day to day life. i hear the bird songs outside my studio and bedroom window; i see the branches waving in the late summer breeze; i watch the moths come out at night and tap against the screen beside the studio table, and wonder if they live to see the start of another day. i listen to the owls call back and forth to one another through the dark and quiet middle night. i dream of water rippling, i hear it in the stream that rushes out below. i've been working with these sentimental concepts - the birds, the trees, the nests and windows and garden gates, for as long as i've been making jewelry - since before robin was born, and he'll turn twenty three in october. how to change the things that i do? why change?! it works for me, and apparently it does for those who buy and wear it and give it as well. customers write, years after purchasing a piece, and tell me what wearing the words and the images strung together means for them. it means a new set of memories, a way to share stories, it means a connection, a talisman, a way to speak to the world (or not to speak, but maybe to watch silently in awe). i don't even know why i'm rambling on about such things, but when you spend as much time with yourself as i do, when you work day in and day out on a certain form of art, when you pour your heart into each and every piece, sometimes it helps to talk about it, to let the feelings that have been welling up inside spill over a bit and flow on to another place and see what happens, then.

so, i'm letting the edge tip over here so all that swirling of thought and musing and reflection can inch its way up and over and out to you. and even, yes, to you. xo (ps. this format looks awful. i have been at this for three hours, and typepad is giving me terrible fits. i'll come back and remedy the way this looks tomorrow, but for now? i'd rather go sit outside on the deck with a cup of tea than sit here pulling out my hair and wanting to throw this computer out the window to the lovely grass below...) x

Heart Catcher Workshop

You can click on the heart photo above for information regarding this upcoming workshop. I'm offering an early bird, price of $295.00 for the entire two days , if you pay before April 5; after that date, the price will be $320.00.